She Always Walked That Way

And there, hanging my the one hair left to her, she heard a song.
Bent backward and all around she dreamed of inventing the sea.
She tried to understand why she was so solid and not there.
But was geometrically opposed.

She had many eyes at the tips of her fingers but could feel nothing.
Did she need arms to go behind her looking for the answer.
She always walked that way.
Staying connected or wishing for no silence, whichever came first
Part of her stood waiting for the many faces left in her brain.

Her dress was dark and stormy
And her eyes had two lenses.
It was funny the appendages she grew while waiting to divide.
Living up in a row, she saw no one.
Uncontrolled hands were never there.
Was her father the fly on the wall?

Her senses tried to find calm.
She saw a mechanical leg---then she wept.
Her ears grew longer and she felt an eye.
She stood on the stand half thin,
But her eyes were wings, green.
She grew pregnant and heard voices.
Hooks and hangers stabbed below her heart then came a hot whistle.
Her neck stretched to a long finger and she wept again.

Small and black and finely grained
Her legs were shorter than she was.
There was a big line that threw itself about her.
She was only three.